Only As Bright
by mecily
Summary: You know you should end whatever this is. But every time you start to do something, you realize just how far away you've drifted since that first dive. You're in far too deep now to even begin to know which way to look for the surface. You're drowning, and you're pulling her down with you.


You don't know how it came to this.

You lie in silence. You breath; she breathes in tandem. Your foot shifts and the sheets rustle in response. But you don't talk. You never talk.

You listen to her shallow breathing as it gradually deepens and you watch her chest rise and fall and rise and fall without trying to give yourself away, but you're sure she knows. She always knows.

Her eyes never once meet yours. You haven't seen, really seen, those brown pools in years. Has it been that long? Years? Yes, you finally, reluctantly, decide. She hasn't been able to look you in the eye for years. All those years since you both dove into the depths head first, hands clasped, unaware of anything that might come.

"You should go," you hear, detecting not even an inkling of emotion. "He'll be home soon."

You remember for a moment the way her voice used to ring in your ears with love, or at least something close to it. But time and circumstance have worn it down. Gradually, you began to hear the pain she felt when she spoke to you. That had been almost heartbreaking. But this? This was exponentially worse.

"Yeah, of course."

You gather your clothes that are scattered around the room from the top of the hour's dulled frenzy. She lies in the bed, bare back toward you, casting not even a glance over her shoulder.

It wasn't supposed to be this way.  
When this all started, you had intentions far more pure and a much more concise idea of where you stood and where you were going.

Now you're stuck.

You know you should end whatever this is. You're risking both of your careers and her family with every minute it continues. But every time you start to do something to put an end to it, you realize just down far away you've drifted since that first dive. The shore, just the distant, rocky rind of the forbidden fruit. Now you're thrashing, kicking, trying anything you can to stay afloat, but the water keeps sucking you down further and further into its depths. You're in far too deep to even begin to know which way to look for the surface. Now you're drowning, and you're pulling her down with you.

—

The first time you found her in New York was at her show. You hadn't spoken in years, having lost contact during your sophomore years at college, but Santana had told you about the musical when you mentioned your impending trip up the the city, so you decided to check it out. It wasn't her first Broadway show. No, that had been four years ago. But this was her first in which she was the lead, and it was the first you would be seeing.

The show was as you always had imagined it being: spectacular. You hadn't expected anything less than that. Her voice had only matured with age, and she could still move an audience to tears. Even you, who had resolved to never cry for her years ago.

After the show, you waited with the rest of the fans outside the theater at the stage door. You weren't anticipating much, but at least wanted to offer a simple "great job," because it had been that, and so much more.

She surprised you, really surprised you, when she threw her arms around your neck and practically squealed with excitement in your ear. You didn't mind, though. If she was happy to see you, you were more than happy to see her, and if that came at the price of a couple high-pitched hellos, so be it.

After a few moments, she stepped back, glancing apologetically at the others in the crowd. She leaned in close and, with a smile, asked you to stick around before tending to the rest of her adoring fans. She signed Playbills, lobby-purchased mementos, and even a couple napkins with a smile and grace that couldn't be matched.

She looked different, and not just because of the years that had passed (because truthfully, they didn't seem to have much of an effect on her). It was the fact that she somehow looked lighter that threw you. You couldn't quite pinpoint why it was, though, so you just let it be, and watched.

The last of the group left about half an hour later, and by then you had found your post leaning against the brick wall just a couple feet away. She began walking toward you, beckoning you, and you complied immediately. She grabbed your arm and looped it with her own and led you back inside and down the hallway.

"I'm so glad you're here, Quinn," she must've said five times. "I've missed you more than you can imagine."

She stopped at a door bearing her name within a gold star, and beamed proudly at you before tugging you inside.

It was surprisingly plain and not what you had expected of Rachel Berry's dressing room. There were flowers, though, lots and lots of them. They lay on the floor, on the furniture, even on the vanity, leaving just enough space for one person to use the mirror. You still don't know how they weren't all dead and wilted.

You stayed near the doorway while Rachel ventured further into the jungle. She moved with familiarity, stepping around the vases and planters with incredible ease. At the far end of the room she grabbed her purse and coat from the only empty chair and then quickly returned to your side. "So, what brings you to New York?"

You shrugged, offering your services to hold her purse as she unsuccessfully tried to pull on the trench. She flashed a smile as she placed the bag carefully in your hands. "My publisher called me in for a pre-release meeting. I'm here for a few more days, then it's back to Charlotte before the tour."

"Charlotte, huh? That's not too far," she mused, leading you out of the dressing room and closing the door behind you. You didn't dare object to her musings, though you knew otherwise. "So you're an author now?" You nodded. "What happened to performing? You were amazing, Quinn."

Your cheeks flushed before you replied. "A creative writing class my sophomore year." That class had changed your entire life. "I realized I was actually good with words, and it just went from there."

"I can't believe I didn't know that. You'd think Kurt or Santana or even Brittany would have mentioned it." Her genuinely bewildered look did nothing to help you keep in the chuckle.

"Well, it's only my second book," you tried to rationalize, but she didn't seem to be buying it. "And the first wasn't exactly a bestseller."

She shook her head. "I'm sure they're both wonderful. I'd love to read them."

She led you back to the front of the theater where only a few men were lingering, waiting for everyone to leave so they could begin their cleaning. She waved goodbye to them with a grateful smile, before exiting onto the busy night street and turning to you under the portico. "When are you heading back to Charlotte?"

"Wednesday afternoon."

A wide grin bloomed. "We should have dinner tomorrow night. The stage is dark and I have the entire evening open. It'd be perfect!" She paused and looked at you, seeming rather embarrassed. "That is, if you're free, of course."

The eagerness she was so self-conscious of just encouraged your delight. "That sounds great, Rachel."

"Wonderful."

She handed you her iPhone, contact page blank and ready for you. You entered your information quickly and handed it back. "Great, I'll call you tomorrow after I make the reservations. Finn will be so excited to see you!"

That was when you saw the ring, and your face fell. Finn. Her husband, Finn.

You hadn't forgotten about him—at least, not entirely. How could you? You'd been at the wedding. Granted, you drank so much at the reception afterwards that even the ceremony was a haze, but you remembered enough to know that they were definitely, finally, married.

After the reception disaster, you didn't really keep in touch with the new Mrs. Finn Hudson, despite what good friends you'd become since graduating from McKinley. Skype calls and phone calls dwindled to the odd text, and even those eventually died down to birthday e-mails, if you were lucky. She didn't try to fix the broken relationship, and neither did you. It still stung, though.

You were beginning to feel that sting again, except this time you weren't a metro ride away. No, you were standing right next to her. So you slapped on a smile and nodded. "Can't wait to see him."

She beamed. "I'm sorry I can't do anything tonight. I've got to be ready for an interview on the Late Show in..." she looked at her watch. "Less than an hour. But I'm really glad you came. It's so good to see you again."

"It's good to see you again, too, Berry," you assured with a playful smirk. She wrapped her arms around you once more, said her final goodbyes, and you both went your separate ways.

Dinner the next night was less than thrilling. You stumbled your way through pleasantries, and answered Finn's half-hearted questions about your life. He looked just about as excited to see you as you felt seeing him. You later found out that Rachel had dragged him away from his basketball game to go out with you, and he would have rather been anywhere with a television.

Rachel managed to salvage. She brought you up to speed on the lives of all the glee clubbers you hadn't exactly kept up with, which, you realized, was quite a few. Finn interjected once in a while. He explained how Artie was now in his final year of his Master's studies in Robotic Engineering and how Mike was out in LA, finally getting his major break as a dancer.

At the end of the night, you and Rachel were waiting side by side outside the restaurant. Finn had left to get the car and you had just called a cab for yourself. The silence, while tolerable, hadn't been what you'd hoped to fill your time together with, so you decided it was a good time to present her with your gift.

It was your first book, hard copy, original edition, that you had signed unceremoniously on Brittany and Santana's couch after you'd watched her interview the night before. Technically it was a re-gift, but it hadn't been opened, and you knew you weren't going to find a copy at any bookstore around here. You'd buy Santana and Brittany a new one eventually if they ever noticed it was missing.

Rachel was elated, and didn't hesitate to pull you into a bone crushing hug that you didn't know was possible from a person her size. She made a promise to read it as soon as she could right before Finn pulled up in the SUV.

She smiled, tucked the book into her bag with care, and hugged you one last time before climbing into the car. Finn waved before pulling off the curb and not a minute later, they were out of sight. Gone.

—

The next time you actually saw each other was when you moved to New York a year later. Your newest book had been very well received, much more so than your first. After having to fly up for meetings with your editors and publishers and publicists multiple times, you'd figured it be easier to just pack up and leave Charlotte in favor of the faster pace of New York. You'd wanted to do it for a while, anyway, and it seemed like the perfect opportunity.

The first person you called was Santana, because you wanted to take her apartment hunting with you, but the second person you called was Rachel. You two had kept in touch this time, rekindling the friendship that you thought had burned out long ago. It was exciting for you, this second chance at being a real friend to her. You could hope that this time would be different.

With the burgeoning friendship, though, came something you should've expected. That pang, that stinging, you'd felt that night after the show seemed to grow with almost every conversation you shared. By the time you decided to move, the pang had morphed into a constant ache. It was the ache of a longing heart.

You tried to ignore it.

It didn't always work.

She was the person who met you at the airport, wearing jeans and a long sleeved flannel shirt, holding what looked to be a very heavy winter coat. Hell must've frozen over, you'd thought, or at least Hell's Kitchen.

You'd never seen her dressed so casually, outside of a glee performance all those years ago, and it suddenly made you realize how much you had missed during that time when you didn't speak.

The flannel was warm against your skin when she ran and wrapped you in her arms. It was the most enthusiastic welcome you had received from anyone in years, possibly your entire lifetime. Leave it to Rachel.

You indulged in small talk on your walk to the baggage claim, and it continued as you waited for your five—count 'em—bags to pass by. The first four, the two of you found with relative ease, but the last one, the pesky little burgundy "too big for a carry-on" bag, eluded you until they started emptying the next flight's luggage.

She laughed at you for all your baggage and light-heartedly questioned your materialistic tendencies. You reminded her that you still had a load of stuff en route from Charlotte that would arrive three days later. If she wanted to see that particular strain of dependence on material things of all sorts, she should come to meet the truck when it arrived, and that was your backhanded way of asking her to help you move in.

You didn't even have to ask twice.

She and Santana and Brittany all arrived on Saturday, mostly all smiles, except from Santana scowled at you for the first two hours. When you called for pizza and broke out the beer you'd bought the night before specifically for the occasion, she lightened up considerably.

The four of you brought in all the boxes off the truck, and the movers placed your furniture, and by six that evening you were willing to call it a day, never mind that you had unpacked next to nothing.

"Fabray, you better plan on paying the hospital bills I'll be racking up when I wake up with no use of my muscles tomorrow," Santana threatened as she and Brittany walked arm in arm toward the door.

You just happened to be digging in the bathroom box at that point, and you tossed her a bottle of Advil. "Buck up, Lopez. Coach Sylvester would be very disappointed in you."

"Yeah, yeah," she rolled her eyes as she caught the blue bottle before promptly flipping you the bird.

"Bye, Rachel, bye, Quinn," Brittany said, pushing Santana out into the hallway before further actions could ensue. "Enjoy the new place!"

She waved at you both, and you waved back before the door closed and you heard faint giggles fade down the hallway. You turned back to Rachel who was still at your side and offered a grateful smile.

"Thanks for your help. You really didn't have to," you said.

"I wanted to," she grinned, before wrapping you up in a hug. "I'm so glad you're here."

You slowly, slowly returned her embrace. "Me too."

She left not long afterwards, citing a performance she couldn't miss. You walked her out and then grabbed the last bottle of beer from the fridge for an early dinner and went straight to bed.

It was a month later, when you officially had everything mostly out of boxes in a somewhat decent order, Santana told you she was throwing you a housewarming party.

"It's not for you, really, it's for me," she'd shrugged. "You owe me for moving all that shit in there in the first place."

You rolled your eyes, but nodded. You didn't know who she was going to invite, considering you knew a total of maybe five people in the entire city, but one thing you knew, she was sure to invite Rachel.

A week later, your apartment was filled with people you didn't know and music you hated and smells you weren't used to smelling (but that was just the building, really, you had come to realize). It reminded you of high school and you slowly felt yourself getting sick to your stomach when Rachel walked in.

Things got at least a little better then.

You greeted her before she'd barely stepped foot in the room and offered her a drink which she eagerly accepted. You claimed spots on the couch and talked for a long time. You talked about how neither of you much enjoyed parties. You talked about how much Santana, who was already sloppy drunk and dancing like a maniac with a group of her friends, loved them. After a few more drinks, you talked about things that didn't make all that much sense to you, but you went along with it anyway.

Two hours in, Santana dragged you away to mingle with her people, all of whom you had long ago decided were a strange bunch and a far cry from anyone she would have been friends with in a previous Lima life. But you let her usher you around anyway, because drunk Santana could have a really, really strong grip.

You finally slipped away when you saw Rachel escaping to the kitchen out of the corner of your eye. Santana didn't notice, and if she did, she didn't care.

"Not having any fun?"

She turned at the sound of your voice and she shook her head in disagreement.

"Of course I am," she replied. "I just needed a refill. And a new cup. I think there's a hole in this one."

She pointed to a stain on her skirt and then to the plastic cup in her hand before she dropped the faulty container into the trash pail. You apologized profusely.

"Don't worry, it's old," she giggled at your rambles.

"If you're sure," you conceded slowly before crossing the kitchen toward the cabinet you had emptied your real glasses into just last week. You turned back to her with a crystal tumbler and a smile. "This one shouldn't leak."

You walked back toward her, just tipsy enough to forget about the rug you'd placed to cover a big brown spot on the hardwood. You tripped with a strangled groan, and fell forward into her, your face red.

"Are you okay?" she asked, worried splashing her features.

"Yeah, I-I'm fine," you nodded, not bothering to move. She had wrapped her arms around your back to steady you, and she was warm and you didn't want to leave if you didn't have to. You set the glass down on the island behind her with a clink. "Sorry."

She looked up at you with a playful look on her features. "It's okay."

And that was when you realized how close you really were. Your face was right in front of her face, her lips just centimeters from your own. She was so near and you were just the slightest bit on the wrong side of drunk and the temptation was strong. You couldn't control yourself.

You reached up and took her face tenderly between your hands, and you kissed her.

It wasn't long. In fact, as far as kisses go, it was relatively short. Just a quick, two-second, simple press of your lips to hers, but as you pulled away, you couldn't help but stare at her.

There was silence then, in which she stared, agape, into your eyes, then down at your lips, then up at the ceiling in almost perfect time. You wanted to say something, but you didn't know what. She needed to be the one to break the silence.

And a long, excruciating time later, she did.

"Quinn," she breathed. She had that crooked, sad half-smile on her face–the one people wore when they were trying really hard to not look as confused as they truly were. But even Rachel wasn't that convincing of an actress. She sputtered for her words. You didn't think you'd ever seen her so flustered.

"What..." She closed her eyes, racking her brain; the sentences weren't coming. "Why? Why did you do that?"

"I just..." You opened your mouth to answer, but quickly realized you didn't know what you wanted to say either. "I wanted to see what it'd be like."

She furrowed her brow, looking at you with scrutinizing, incredulous eyes. "What? Kissing another girl?"

"No." You said it firmly. If you wanted to just kiss another girl, you had your pick of the majority of Santana's friends just out there in your living room. That wasn't what you were after, not at all.

She drove her chin forward expectantly and cocked her head to the side. She had been awaiting a more explanatory answer, and was quite obviously dissatisfied with the one you'd given. She prompted again. "What then? You wanted to see what what would be like?"

"Kissing you."

She was silent again.

In that moment, Rachel Berry was speechless—for the second time that night and the second time in her life.

Yes. You, Quinn Fabray, after all these years, wanted to see what it'd be like to kiss Rachel Berry. And now you finally knew.

It wasn't like what you'd thought it'd be. You'd thought it'd be special, heart-stopping, world-shattering. You'd hoped it would cure all this pent-up desire. You'd wanted her to kiss you back.

You'd thought, maybe, if you just got a taste, you'd be satisfied. But if you'd learned anything in this lifetime, it was that taking the hair from the dog that bit you had never once solved any of your problems. In fact, doing so usually made things ten times worse.

The kiss wasn't anything remotely spectacular. The floor beneath you hadn't opened up to swallow you whole, the sky outside hadn't exploded with color. It was just a kiss. That should've made you want it—her—less. But all you wanted to do was pull her to you once more and kiss her until you showed her it was special. That you were special, and that you could be the one she'd always needed. Until she believed it.

When your thoughts finished flying through your head, she was still staring wordlessly at you, trying to understand what she hadn't for so long, what she couldn't now. Her mouth opened, but words wouldn't come out. You weren't expecting them to. Not until some finally did.

"It can't happen again," she said firmly. It was a statement of fact, there was no leeway.

"It won't," you answered. It was meant to be a promise, but somewhere deep inside, you knew some part of you was taking it as a challenge.

She looked to you with wary eyes, studying your face, your truth. You wanted to believe she believed you, but she knew you better than that. You saw the doubt in her gaze, the uncertainty as she crossed her arms over her chest, the disappointment in her soft sigh.

"I'm going to go home now."

You bit the inside of your bottom lip. You didn't want her to go, back to her life, back to Finn, away from you. But, you'd learned since you'd arrived in the city, things weren't going to go your way.

—

The day she told you she was pregnant was the day you swore to yourself that you would never, ever look at Rachel Berry the way you used to. She didn't deserve it, and neither did her child. And to be fair, Finn probably didn't either, but you weren't nearly as concerned when it came to him.

She showed you that first ultrasound picture with such joy that you couldn't help but be happy for her, even as your heart was breaking. That peanut sized piece of her was the final blow to your torch. You couldn't bring yourself to ruin the life of that baby.

She early on dubbed you Aunt Quinn, and you had no reason to protest. You were actually excited to already have such a role, especially after everything that had occurred just months ago.

Kurt was named godfather, as everyone knew he would be. It was Finn and Rachel's choice of godmother, however, that was far more shocking. Santana. She had scoffed and rolled her eyes when it was announced, allergic to the sentimentality, but you knew deep inside that she was flattered. She'd move a mountain for that little one if that was what it came to.

It went smoothly, the pregnancy went smoothly, thankfully not foiled by any gargantuan spawn of Finn Hudson growing too large for her tiny frame as you and Santana would joke about behind closed doors.

Days and months went by and as you watched her gracefully transform from the Rachel Berry you knew into Rachel Berry mother-to-be, you wondered if you'd ever looked so striking and content when you were pregnant with Beth. Then the memories of your sixteenth year would come rushing back to you, flood your thoughts, and you'd finally conclude with a no. Your happy moments in those nine months were fleeting. You were glad things were different for her.

She'd come to you sometimes to complain, or to share stories, or to ask your advice on certain parts of the pregnancy she couldn't find in one of her fifty What to Expect-esque manuals. Few of her other friends had been pregnant at that point, and the ones who had been, Tina and Mercedes for instance, were across the country, so by process of elimination, that left you as her sole confidant. You soothed her fears and offered what little sage advice you could recall from your own experience when it was asked for.

You wished once that you were more than the pregnancy whisperer, but then you remembered that you were lucky to be there at all. At least as the pregnancy whisperer you got to hold her hand sometimes when the fright of impending parenthood took hold of her. It was more than you could've asked for a few months ago, more than you knew you should be receiving now. But Rachel had always had a kind and forgiving heart—you knew one day that it would be her downfall.

She went into labor in the early hours of what turned out to be a beautiful June day. Her water broke six hours before you got a call from Santana, telling you what'd happened. She asked if you were going to go to the hospital, and you seriously thought about it before you said no. There was a line you needed to draw somewhere, for Rachel's sake.

Santana called you again around midnight that night, telling you everything was well, and finally over. A baby boy, seven pounds, two ounces, 23 inches long, had been born at 10:49 PM. They hadn't named him yet. He had all his appendages. Rachel was okay, just getting some rest.

Overall, Santana was willing to call it all a success. You were relieved to hear that, and decided you would visit the next afternoon to see for yourself. So at two o'clock the next day, that's exactly what you did.

Rachel face brightened when you peeked your head in the door. She was obviously exhausted, but the look she gave was genuine. Finn looked up at you too, and even offered a crooked grin. You eyes were transfixed on the tiny human resting peacefully in his arms.

"Hi," you said softly as you walked in.

She silently beckoned you toward her with her left hand, and used her right to reach out to Finn's arm. He understood the gesture immediately, and, pressing a soft kiss to the sleeping baby's forehead, stood to place him in her arms.

"You just missed Santana and Brittany," she said as the infant settled into the new, warm arms that were surrounding him.

"That's alright," you shrugged, smiling a bit. You hadn't come to see them, anyway.

You took a step closer to the bed, until you were standing right next Finn, and peered over the baby, examining his tiny body with awe.

"Is everyone doing okay?" you asked after a moment, your eyes bouncing between Rachel, the baby, and, obligatorily, Finn.

"He's great," Finn nodded with a smile that radiated his pride in the answer. You wouldn't admit it aloud under most circumstances, but you had to acknowledge that fatherhood looked good on him. "And Rach is doing great, too, aren't you, babe?"

She looked up at him and nodded before meeting your eye again. "A little sore, but it's more than worth it."

Satisfied, Finn took his seat again, and you pulled up another chair from the corner of the room to sit, just a comfortable distance away from Finn's rocking chair.

You chatted, the three of you, about the mundane things: how happy you all were that things had gone smoothly, how large he was and how unsurprising that honestly was, how tiny each of his little fingers were. You watched them banter on about the color scheme for the nursery, which you knew had long ago been decided upon by Rachel, but still seemed to be a debatable topic considering the baby had arrived just a little more than two weeks early.

They were happy, and you were happy for them. You were, truly. But you didn't know why it hurt so much.

About fifteen minutes into your visit, there was another knock on the door. It was Kurt with Burt and Carole who had both flown over the day before to be there for the birth. They offered to take Finn out for a bit of a celebration, and after a few minutes of cooing over the baby in Rachel's arms, they were off to the cafeteria, or the restaurant down the street, or somewhere else. They didn't say.

She let you hold him when they left, and you still were a while later when she told you his name. "Joel Benjamin Hudson." It was quiet, and you barely heard it from your chair, but it was there. And it was perfect. Not your first, second, or sixteen-hundredth choice, but perfect.

They chose Joel, she said, to keep up the Berry tradition of Hebrew names. She didn't explain Benjamin, so you assumed it was for the same reasons. It was later in the day that you learned he was actually named for Ben Roethlisberger, who, you learned from Finn's Facebook post, was born in Lima. What a small world it was.

She fell asleep soon, and you were left alone with the baby, who fell asleep not long after his mother's breathing had evened out. His weight in your arms brought back long suppressed memories and soon your mind was straying to Beth.

She had turned thirteen that last May—you knew without even thinking—but it had been a long time since you'd seen her. Puck had visited, though, with surprising regularity. He'd call you sometimes after a visit. There was only thing that was ever the same about her according to him: "She looks just like you, Q."

You'd always laugh at that, because what were the odds? Your family's northern European traits had hardly been evident in you as you were growing up. And Puck's Jewish genes certainly were more dominant—you had researched it all those years ago. But she was still blonde with rather unusual amber eyes, and a nose that, while not as finely sculpted as yours currently, fit her face just fine.

Joel garbled, pulling you from your reverie, but after a few uncertain moments of wriggling, he fell right back to sleep. You just watched.

He already had the Berry nose—you could see it clearly. He had Finn's ears to grow into as well, but everything else was up in the air. So you started silently listing the traits you hoped for him. Rachel's eyes, Finn's height, Rachel's heart and perseverance, and Finn's... Finn's innocence. At least for a little while, anyway.

He was perfect. Ten fingers, ten toes, strong lungs, fighting spirit. Perfect.

But he was also the perfect weapon. The final nail in the coffin. With every little breath he took, every tiny twitch of his nose, with every grasp of your finger by his ten strong, you could feel it all slipping away. The heart Rachel Berry had broken, the one you had so painstakingly sewn back together, was coming undone once more.

It wasn't ten minutes later that Finn came back into the room, a styrofoam cup in hand and the stench of the hospital's hallways embedded in the fabric of his clothes. His eyebrows knitted together as he watched his new son, the son currently grasping onto your finger in his sleep, nuzzle in toward your shoulder, seeking warmth, comfort, and his mother (who most certainly was not you).

"You're still here."

You couldn't say what was going through Finn's mind then as he stood, motionless, in the doorway. He could've simply been gazing at Joel wondering how he had gotten so lucky to have his wife, his baby, and the life he'd always wanted for himself. Or, perhaps like you, his mind had wandered to the past. The sight of you and the newborn bringing up the what-ifs he'd tried so hard to forget over the past almost fifteen years. Or maybe he was having some sort of revelation. Maybe, in that very moment, in that dim hospital room, he'd finally seen right through you. Although, if you were being honest, you were almost sure you were a sheet of the clearest ice to him, even before.

It could've been a million different things, but you'd never know. You didn't ask; you weren't going to.

Silence wasn't a stranger to you now. You felt like you and it had come to an understanding. Your skin no longer danced on your bones in anticipation, your heart no longer thrummed beneath your sternum with uncomfortable nervous energy, or at least not so that you noticed—that was silence's end of the deal. Your end was that you listened when a silence said stay, and complied when it said go.

This silence screamed in your ear, echoed in your head, "get out now."

You stood, careful not to jostle the baby in your cradle of limbs, and walked over toward the man with slow, deliberate steps. He took a step in front of you, held out his arms and took his son, and that was that.

It felt as if the universe had shifted, as if the world had suddenly tilted on its axis and upset everything you knew. But it hadn't, everything was just the same. You were still the pathetic, pining novelist, he was still the lumbering semi-oblivious husband, and Rachel was still as far out of reach as she'd ever been.

What was different now was the tangibility of their union. You had held it in your arms, you had kissed its tiny fingers, you had felt its steady heartbeat against your skin. Joel Benjamin Hudson was the beginning and the end.

You gazed at him, his eyes still closed, encased by Finn's slightly-less finely sculpted arms, before meeting the man's eyes. His expression hadn't changed. His stare seemed to beam right through you, into your head and out. It was as if he suddenly knew your every thought, every pent-up feeling, every word you so desperately wanted to say, but couldn't.

But if he did, he didn't say so.

Long seconds of silence passed, before you finally had to look away. You forced a smile.

"Congratulations."

"Thanks."

You nodded and hiked the straps of your purse further up your shoulder. You rocked backwards onto your heels, preparing for your exit.

"I think I'll go now," you said. "Tell Rachel I'll see her soon. And," you tried to think of something to add, so you wouldn't be giving yourself away. "Call me if you two need anything."

"Will do."

You turned the door's handle roughly and with a final, curt goodbye, left the room.

They never did call you, and you didn't see Rachel soon after that. She was busy with the baby, you were busy trying to finish up your latest proposal. It was probably all for the best that they never called on you, because your half-hearted attempts to cover your ass probably wouldn't have worked in your favor, anyway.

Why couldn't you just get over yourself? When had you become such a sadist? How were you going to get past this sad turn of events?

Exactly one month after Joel's birth you found an answer. You were going to leave. To fly far, far away from that cesspool of pain and self-torture you had found yourself in.

The idea had been floating in your head for a while—you'd always wanted to see France—and knew you couldn't stand staying much longer in the suffocatingly small New York you knew. You had the means to go now, and if anyone asked, you could say you were going to find your inspiration. The city wasn't doing it for you this time. It was going to be the adventure of a lifetime.

You had to keep telling yourself that you weren't running away, you weren't. You were clearing your head; you were getting back on track; you were being spontaneous for once in your life. But as you stood in line at security two nights later, looking at the e-mails on your phone, it felt a lot like running. But by then you weren't sure you cared, and you weren't sure if you wanted to come back.

—

As it turned out, Europe was probably the best thing you'd ever done for yourself. You spent six months in Paris, a couple more in Berlin, and a little over a year in Barcelona. You loved it there the most, more than you thought you would. There was something so distant and exotic and completely and absolutely foreign in the hot, Spanish air. It was the complete opposite of anything you'd ever known in your life, and when the time for your adventure seemed to be drawing to a close, you didn't want to leave the sounds or the colors or the warm air behind.

But there was something drawing you back to the States, something you didn't and weren't going to fully acknowledge, not for a while anyway.

You went home. Your sub-letters were gone, all the stuff you'd put in storage was taken out and put back into the apartment with some help from Santana and Brittany, and that was that. You were back in New York, feeling better and happier and bolder than ever.

The fact that you'd expected those feelings to last was commendable, but laughable all the same. Rachel called you not a day after you were moved back in. She asked the requisite post-trip questions, before she got to her reason for calling.

"Would you like to meet me for coffee sometime this week? It's been nearly two years since I've seen you."

You were hesitant to accept. You wanted to see her again, of course you did. But you'd finally freed yourself from her unrelenting grasp; you had been Rachel Berry-less for months. It had been the entire objective of your trip.?You weren't going to willingly walk into a relapse, were you?

"I'd love to."

So on Wednesday afternoon, when Finn was home with Joel and Rachel didn't have a rehearsal you met at a tiny little free trade coffee shop you frequented before you went away. You'd forgotten about it, and thought it'd be long gone by then, but apparently it was still fighting.

She was seated at a corner table, fiddling with her phone, when you walked in. Something fluttered in your chest, something you despised with every ounce of your being. The resistance you had built up against her image in your absence was failing you now.

As you neared, you saw that two coffees were set on the small tabletop before her. You couldn't help the upward twitch of the corners of your lips at the sight. She'd asked your order once long ago and had apparently stored it away for future reference. She remembered.

She looked up from her phone then to scan the room, and when her eyes landed on you, a smile broke across her face and she rushed forward to envelop you in a hug. The smell of her shampoo tickled your nostrils as you wrapped your own arms around her waist. Vanilla—but you were expecting raspberry. You knew you shouldn't be disappointed.

She pulled just far enough away that she could look into your eyes, and you took the opportunity to study her every feature. Not much had changed in the time you were away, not for Rachel Berry. Her hair was cut a bit shorter, her make-up done to a minimum, and maybe her eyes had just a wrinkle or two more surrounding them, but she was still your Rachel.

She shook her head in disbelief, shaking your focus and forcing you to pay attention to her words. "You really are home."

A soft, short chuckled escaped your lips. "I am," you answered with a nod. And licked your lips as you tried to decide what to say. You stuck with safety. "How is Joel?"

"He's wonderful," she confirmed, slowly releasing you from her embrace. The places she'd touched suddenly felt colder. "I've sent pictures."

"I know. I've seen them." He was a handsome little boy, with a mop of dark brown hair and big almond shaped eyes. He looked just like her. You refrained from saying those things to her—for what reason, you didn't know. Her smile fell slightly.

You took your seat as she took hers across from you. The coffee cup was still hot against your palms, and you reveled in the warm liquid that slid down your throat. Hazelnut with one pump of caramel syrup. It was the sweetest of nectars to you after a year's worth of espresso.

"I was really worried about you," she admitted after you'd both had a minute or two to settle into your chairs.

You shrugged a bit, mostly to slip off your jacket, but also for other reasons. "I was fine."

"But I didn't know. None of us did." She reached forward and covered your closed fist with her own open palm. Her voice fell to a whisper then, as if she were revealing some great secret. "Those first few days when no one could find you, after Santana went and saw everything was gone from your apartment, I was terrified."

You frowned and cleared your throat. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean for that."

You hadn't, certainly. It wasn't until you charged your phone on your third day abroad that you even saw the messages they'd all sent. You hadn't thought about the consequences until you were already half a world away. You hadn't expected anyone to care enough to notice.

She sighed softly and fell backwards into her seat, the hand she had draped over yours leaving its perch in the same movement. "I suppose I just don't understand why you did it."

Maybe she didn't, but you understood why. You'd tried so hard to contain it throughout your entire trip, even in the early hours of your return. But oh, how quickly pressure could deform a cavity, release its contents back into the world.

You took a shuddering breath, and set your coffee down on the red and white checkerboard tablecloth. "Do you want the truth?"

Her eyes ran over your face, analyzing every bit of emotion she thought she could extract. You could promise whatever she'd found was far from the whole picture. She raised an eyebrow. "Do I?"

A chuckle bubbled up from your throat, and your hair tickled you chin as you shook your head. "Probably not."

But she carried on. "I think I'd like to hear it anyway."

"I don't think you would."

"Then why would you offer it as an option?" Her face was scrunched in friendly dismay, and she leaned over the table, imploring you with her big brown eyes. "Tell me."

You weren't going to. You fought the words the entire journey. From your neurons to your vocal cords to your lips you fought. But when it came to Rachel Berry, it was always a losing battle. "I love you."

You watched as her face morphed. Concern ran into anger, which ran into confusion, which ran into a familiar look of disappointment. Her jaw was tight, her lips pulled into a thin line, her eyes rolled up to stare at the ceiling, lost. Her eyes met yours with fire before she, just barely, shook her head.

"Not again, Quinn."

And with that she stood from the table and walked away, not bothering to push her chair back in. Her heels clicked against the floors, and those click-click-clicks echoed in your ears, drowning out the chatter of the other patrons and the whirring of the coffee mill behind the counter. You sat silently as she swept out of the café into the April drizzle outside.

You were left alone in the crowded shop to wonder how impossibly stupid you could be. You'd been back in the city less than a week, and you'd already fucked up. You were always fucking up, always. It'd be written on your tombstone in fancy bold script: "This girl fucked up." Teenagers would think it funny and widows would find it offensive, but you'd know it was the truth. No truer words would ever be written.

—

It was late that night—the night everything changed for you. You were sitting on your couch, a half-empty carton of beyond cold princess shrimp from the Chinese place down the block in your lap, and your eyes gazing blankly at the flickering television. Empty eyes, empty head.

You hadn't been able to write anything better than a load of shit for weeks now, your editor was on your ass twenty-five seven, and you just wanted to curl up in bed and stay that way for years. But sleep was eluding you, too.

You were constantly lost in your own head. So lost, in fact, that you almost didn't hear the knock on the door.

Almost.

You set the white cardstock box on the coffee table and tossed the tattered throw blanket from your legs to splay haphazardly across the sofa. Surely whoever was at your door this late at night wasn't expecting a perfectly made-up living room.

You trudged along the hallway, grumbling softly to yourself about tact and decency and daylight, and feeling a lot like a cranky old man as you tried to peek out the peephole. It was half blacked-out and cracked, and therefore almost impossible to see out of, as it had been since you moved in there. You didn't know what made you think it would be different each time you tried.

Wasn't that what people were always saying about insanity? Trying the same thing and all that shit. That was it—you were going insane. Of course. It explained a lot.

It especially explained the blurry half-sight on the other side of the door that had your eyes bugging slightly out of your head. Not only were you going crazy, you were hallucinating now, too.

You finally, cautiously, opened the door as if it were a delicate bird, one that would disappear if you moved too quickly. But it wasn't the door you were afraid would disappear.

"Hi," you whispered, your hand still clasping the doorknob, white-knuckled.

"Hi."

There were tears in her eyes. You struggled to ignore them.

"What are you doing here?"

"I-I don't..." Rachel stammered as she glanced down nervously at her wringing hands. When she looked back up at you, though, there was dead set conviction in her eyes. "No one can know about this."

You nodded your head in agreement. You knew immediately what she meant, no further explanation needed, or wanted. It was short, it was simple, and it was liberating. Fireworks were exploding in your head. But there wasn't much time to dwell.

She stepped inside, crouched to unbuckle her shoes and slipped them off into the corner. Her soft, red peacoat fell off her shoulders silently as she shrugged it away and set it, folded, on the hall table.

"I can take that," you said, finally snapping out of your stupor. You closed the door and some distance between the two of you with your arms outstretched to take the jacket.

The coat wasn't what ended up in your arms.

Her smaller frame was pressed close to yours and her lips were against your own before you could even begin to process what was happening. In fact, the first five or ten or however many long seconds of that kiss, you stood completely still, dumbfounded at the situation you had fallen into.

It was only after she reached up and wrapped her arms around your neck, sending a spark running down your spine and igniting your consciousness once more, that you responded.

Your arms folded around her, drawing her into you as tightly as you could manage. Your lips clashed against hers in a war for the ages, and you felt her hands slide from your neck to your cheeks and her nails press just firmly enough for you to feel the soft pinch of your flesh.

You led her to where you knew she needed to be, as her hands furiously caressed your sides and her teeth nipped at your lips. By the time you reached the bedroom you'd lost your shirt, but you'd be damned if you cared.

Her knees buckled with incredible grace when they hit the mattress's rim. You stood a moment longer to shimmy out of the jeans she'd already unbuttoned for you before climbing on top of her. She'd gotten rid of her shirt, flung it somewhere you couldn't see. She tugged you down to her as she threaded her fingers through your hair.

Your hands blindly began to explore the smooth expanse of skin beneath you as your tongue simultaneously began exploring the cavern of her mouth. You learned the texture of her tongue and the grooves of her teeth. It was incredible.

Her back arched toward you when your hand crept behind her and with a quick movement of the wrist, her entire upper body was exposed to you. Smooth tan skin and perfectly formed breasts laid bare before your beholden gaze.

"God, Rachel," you breathed softly. "You're so beautiful."

A shudder wracked her shoulders, and within seconds her lips were on your lips and her hands were on your shoulders and the straps of your own bra were sliding down your arms.

Your fingers slid up until they were cupping her cheeks in your palms, your thumbs stroking slowly against supple skin. And from there you began your descent.

You kissed her lips one last time before you latched on to her jaw and then kissed down her throat as if that holy column was your temple. Your tongue trailed lazily along her collarbone before you finally rested on her breast.

You heard her whimper as you coaxed a pert nipple between your teeth and suckled and nipped and swirled. A hand found its path to her other breast and you kneaded that soft skin and that rugged nub between your knuckles with the utmost care.

You wondered if Finn had ever given her so much attention, had ever cared enough to show her what she meant to him. You were trying, and trying hard, to give her exactly what she needed, what she wasn't even aware she wanted. You were aiming to please and aiming to prove what you'd wanted to for so long.

You switched your attentions to her other breast and she pressed a hand to your head, pinning you there as you teased and tugged the solid bud. Her low moans egged you on, driving you closer to her center. You bit down gently on her nipple with your teeth before releasing it with a wet pop that seemed to echo off the walls.

You kissed down the line of her abdomen, dipped your tongue in her navel. You ignored as best you could the shallow grooves at her hips. You needed no reminders.

Her hips bucked upward when your mouth reached the barrier of her waistband and within seconds you had freed her of any clothing still clinging to her warm skin.

"You too," she commanded and reached forward to tug at your underwear. You complied eagerly and soon there was nothing between you and her; there was your skin on her skin and your breath mingling with hers in the space between you and that was all.

You found yourself at the apex of her legs, her sweet musky scent invading your senses and short circuiting your faculties until she whispered your name through the dark, drawing you back to reality. Because that was what this was. Reality.

Your tongue traced her length with care, as if you could memorize her body with just a sweep of your muscles. You tasted just the slightest hint of salt on your lips as you leaned back on your heels and just looked at her. Rachel Berry had never been as beautiful as she was in that moment, chest heaving, eyes lustfully lidded, waiting for you and only you.

You wanted to keep that slice of time with you forever.

She propped herself up onto her elbows and looked at you, concern in her eyes. "Is something wrong?"

"No, I—" You shook your head and swallowed your words. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

You were wrapped so far up in your fantasy that you ignored her long hesitant silence, you ignored the flicker of doubt in her eyes, you ignored everything except that single, sweet syllable: "Yes."

You kicked off your heels and made quick work of settling yourself right back into place. You grazed your lips against the tops of her thighs, you looked to her for one last nod of approval, and without another second of wait, you immersed yourself in all that was Rachel Berry.

When she came undone beneath you, crying your name and breathing headily as her head fell back against the pillow, you were sure you'd discovered your new favorite sound.

You smiled so imperceptibly because you were the person she was crying for. You had given her such a wild turn of pleasure and it was your name that had fallen from her lips in a split second of pure, unadulterated bliss. You could focus only on those absolute, undeniable facts and forget the circumstances of your rendezvous, forget the world surrounding you.

You closed your eyes and helped her down, rocking in and out, slowing your pace in time as her breathing returned to normal.

It was only after you'd removed yourself and crawled up her side that you finally opened your eyes again. Your breath caught in your throat.

She was stiff, her eyes wide, her jaw tight. Her fists were balled into the sheets, but no longer to ground herself as you sent her higher. She couldn't, or wouldn't, meet your worried eye.

"What's wrong?" you whispered.

Your hand rose slowly to touch her cheek. She jerked away just as your fingertips met her jaw.

Her gaze flew around the room, looking at everything except you. "I need..."

She didn't finish her sentence. She just stood from the bed and began searching the floor for her discarded clothes in a building frenzy. She was buzzing; she couldn't stop moving, and didn't stop until she was fully clothed, every button buttoned and every zipper zipped.

Only then did she turn to you. The tears had returned to her eyes, but you wouldn't have known if she hadn't stopped in the pale light bleeding in from your window. "I shouldn't have come here," she finally whispered.

You didn't say anything.

"I just... I need to go. I need to go." She stumbled over her words, and she began searching her pockets, hoping to find something there. Her eyes and muscles resumed their panic. "I'm sorry."

"Me too."

She stilled at that, her feet anchored to the floorboards and her arms frozen in their places. She looked at you with wide eyes that for once seemed so vacant, so dim. The lifelessness you saw scared you.

You began to move toward her, but it seemed to break her spell. Her left foot instinctively stepped toward the door. You resumed your position under the sheets. She stared at you. "I..."

"I know," you said, so softly you hardly heard the words yourself.

She closed the bedroom door quietly as she backed out of the room, and not a full minute later, you heard the front door click closed from down the hallway.

You leaned back against the headboard, your eyes closed and a solid lump growing in your throat. You had finally gotten what you wanted.

She had been yours for that brief sliver of time. The scratched skin on the back of your neck and the hair that was plastered by sweat to your forehead were your proof. But now she was gone and you were alone again and there was a voice screaming in your head that this time was the last time that you were ever going to see her again, that you had, once and for all, royally screwed up.

If you ever did see her again, you promised you would tell her you were done, that you were sorry, that you would never again hurt her the way you had.

You said the same thing to yourself the next week, when she arrived at your door without tears and even a smile, and then two more weeks after that, and again and again and again.

Each time she left you said your piece. You'd make promises that you fully intended to keep, but your convictions slipped further and further from your grasp with each knock, each moan of your name, and each quiver of her thighs.

On and on went the vicious cycle, without meaning or escape. You'd thought, at one point, that you'd won. You had finally proven that you could be all she needed and more. She smiled with you, and laughed, and she told you she loved you. Your existence was suddenly meaningless without her, and you failed to see how fatal that could be for you because you never envisioned you would have to face the possibility ever again.

You didn't realize you were the loser there. You didn't realize what was so wrong about what you were doing. You didn't realize who you were becoming.

You just became, and by then, it was far too late.

—

You pull the bedroom door closed as softly as you can manage. You don't know why. It's not as if she doesn't know you're here, in her apartment. Perhaps, it's for the exact opposite reason. You're here. She wants to forget it. You're just trying to be accommodating.

Yes, that's it.

You walk down the hallway silently. The sound of your bare feet just lightly slapping the hardwood floors is the only thing to even be heard in the apartment. You keep your eyes down on those feet, pale against the dark oak wood. You can't look up. You can't see pictures of Joel, his proudly displayed finger paintings, snapshots of Rachel and Finn, a collective portrait of a family. A happy family. A family you're tearing to shreds without an ounce of regret but mountains of guilt.

You shake your head at the thought. You've tried to deny it for as long as possible. You're not going to stop now.

Or maybe you are.

You're nearly out the door, gone for another week, until another call. But then there's a click, the doorknob turns, and your breath hitches in your throat. The blood in your veins runs cold, your muscles paralyze you and you're frozen to your spot—bent over, reaching down for your shoe. This is not what you need, not now, not today, not ever. You stand in suspense, wide-eyed and unable to move, as the door slowly swings.

Not soon enough, but much too soon all the same, a oddly lanky, brown-haired, six year old bundle of life bursts in through the door. His bulky winter coat hugs him tightly, reminding you of the Michelin Man, only in a deep goblin green. On a normal day, the sight would've made you smile.

You can't see his chaperone through the shadows of the door. You hope to whatever higher powers that be that it's Grace, the nanny. But you know it won't be. Grace, in any form, hasn't been upon you lately.

The boy's lively eyes light up even more when they meet yours, and the moment he's through thrashing his arms to get that pesky coat off, he's rushing toward you to wrap himself around your legs.

"Aunt Q!" he cries, just before impact. He looks up at you with the largest smile you think you've ever seen.

You brush his wild hair down with your fingers. "Hey, Jo. How was your day?"

"Good!" He disentangles his arms from around you legs and takes a step back, but his smile is still there. Your chest aches. He shouldn't look at you like that. "Aunt Tana took me to the aquarium, and we saw the whales! And then we went in the gift shop. Look at my shirt!" He picks the navy blue fabric up off his chest for you to see better. A shark, open jawed, is printed there, and the words 'Bite Me' are written to the side in crunchy font. How very Santana.

"That's very cool," you nod with an appeasing grin. You know Santana's in the doorway now, staring at you. You can feel it. But you don't look up, you won't, not until you have to.

"I know!" he exclaims and shoves his coat unceremoniously in the closet to your left, before he takes off down the hallway. "I'm gonna go feed Iggy!" Joel, and the rest of your luck, disappear around the corner before you can protest.

Seconds later, Santana clears her throat from down the hallway, demanding your attention without words. Just some goddamn rumble deep in her throat. You have to look up. It'll look suspicious if you don't. So you do.

"Hey," you offer with a small, less than honest smile.

She plays no pleasantries though, and her face remains contorted in doubtful confusion. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to talk Rachel." You shrug, like it's obvious. It is really. You wouldn't come here for any other reason. Not as far as she's concerned.

"You two talked?"

"We did."

You didn't.

"She hasn't been talking much to anyone lately," she says, softly, skeptically. She sets the bag she's been holding down on the floor beside the door. It's another bag from the gift shop, and you're pretty sure you see a clownfish plushy sticking out, but you don't look too closely.

She stares at you for a long time, like she's trying to figure out what's in your head. She takes in your slightly mussed hair, your shirt that hangs just a slight bit off-kilter on your torso, the right cuff of your jeans that's folded over itself haphazardly. Calculations fly behind her eyes, eyes that squint and scrutinize your every movement.

It feels like an eternity later when she finally breaks her silence. "You're what's wrong." She says it with perfect authority. There's no question in her tone. It's a statement, like she's suspected it all along.

You feel caught, like everything you've worked for is about to come crashing down around you. But you can't show her that. You've learned over the years that you can play dumb with the best of them. "What are you talking about?"

Her eyes narrow and her arms cross over her chest. "What the fuck ever, Quinn. You know exactly what I'm talking about."

"We just talked, San," you mutter, your words muffled as you look back down at what your hands are supposed to be doing.

She doesn't take the bait. She scoffs loudly, and completes her overall gesture with a wicked roll of her eyes. "Talk, maybe. But not with words, I'm sure." Her voice is softer, kept low so there's not a chance Joel will hear her, even though he's on the other side of the expansive apartment.

You finally manage to tie your shoe. It really couldn't have taken much longer. Your hands were, still are, shaking like mad and you couldn't get the lace through the bunny-hole, not the first four times. You knew you should've worn your flats. But, at least the time you spent figuring out your laces gave you time to gather yourself. You straighten up, shoulders square and face neutral, with jaw set tight. Battle stance.

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"But I think I do." It's cold, it's dark, her voice. It sees through your every secret. You know she's telling you the truth. That she's been suspect all along. "You need to go. Now."

"I will. I am."

She's silent for your short walk across the foyer; the entire apartment is. Not a sound emanates through the residence other than the soft squeak of your rubber soles against the hardwood.

You feel her eyes, though. They don't leave you for a second, and they won't, you're sure, until you are out the door and out of sight. Which, if you've timed it right, will be in five seconds. You can breathe again, then.

5, 4, 3, 2...

"Don't come back, Q," her whisper finds it's way to your ear. "Please."

You weren't expecting those five words to emerge from Santana's mouth. Not ever. A thickness takes over your throat then, like cotton. It's scratchy, it's making it even harder to breathe, and even if you wanted to, you couldn't reply.

So your feet continue their motions until your hand wraps around the cold metal doorknob, and you slowly swing the door open.

You chance a final look back into the apartment, and your eyes are immediately drawn to the top of the staircase. She stands now fully dressed, put together, face hard, arms crossed casually over her chest.

You don't know how long she's been standing there or what she's heard. You do know, though, that it's time to go. Go where? You don't know. Home, maybe. Maybe not.

But as you close the heavy red door, there's one thing of which you're absolutely certain; you'll be back.


End file.
